


Horrors, Waking and Otherwise

by theimaginesyouneveraskedfor



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Abduction, F/M, Obsession, Possession, Short Drabble, dark!, kidnap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor/pseuds/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor
Summary: Warnings: abduction, imprisonment, possessiveness.Summary: You are a kept woman, but not a happy one.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 112





	Horrors, Waking and Otherwise

**Author's Note:**

> A short drabble based on an anon request for obsessive Peter Parker and this comic. Just a random little thing I did as a break from everything else. Possible continuations in future but no promises. Hope you enjoy.

Your boots splashed through puddles as rain spat down from the dark sky. You clung to your purse as it bounced on your hip. The street lights reflected off the wet road as the shadows of the building swallowed you up. You glanced back. He was gone.

The man appeared several streets back. At first, you thought you were paranoid but you couldn’t lose him. You’d even tried taking a shortcut through a Korean grocer. He followed, his pace steady and only six feet back. Then you broke into a run and he did too. He tailed you easily as you gasped for air. But he just disappeared. 

You slowed and turned around to make sure he was gone. You didn’t know who he was or where he’d come from but you were almost home. You just needed to get home. You spun back and kept a brisk pace as you took the last corner to your building.

You climbed the stairs in two steps and barreled inside. You fumbled for your keys as your heart continued to race. Before you could stick the right one in the slot, the door opened again. It was the man, it had to be. Same build, same hoodie pulled low over his face, the same stance. He was on you in a moment and that’s when it went black.

You awoke with a start. The nightmare came often but was nothing compared to your living one. The purgatory you’d lived in since that day. And it played over in your head. Again and again. As if your mind was telling you all that you had done wrong. You let out a long breath and touched your forehead.

The light flicked on. It was motion-activated. You’d figured that out your first day there. The room was small and windowless. More aptly described as a closet. A bed, a toilet much like those found in a prison cell, a sink, a single night table with three books beneath it, a small portable DVD player atop it with as many movies. They changed every now and then.

You were halfway through Beowulf. You’d read it in high school and just like then, you depended heavily on the translations. Your old English had never been great. You would likely finish it within a day or two. You might take a break and watch something. The movies were outdated; some from as far back as the 30s. You would sit against the wall and watched the small screen as the room dissolved around you. The only escape you had.

Except for him. The knock filled the room and you sat up. You pushed the blanket away and slid to the edge of the bed. You wore a plain, shapeless grey dress. The door opened and you stood. He held a folded towel as he held the door open.

“Time to get washed up.” He said evenly, his voice distorted by the mask. Black and featureless, his eyes covered by a dark mesh which both concealed and allowed him to see. “Come on.’

You knew the routine. Once you bathed, he’d feed you and try to talk. When that didn’t work, he’d take you back to the room and lock you in. Two more meals a day, two more silent meetings, and two more turns of the lock. You stood and he handed you the towel.

He stood beside the door and waited for you to exit ahead of him. The place was small, barren, sterile in a way. You walked past the table of two to the narrow door just before the counter that divided kitchen and dining area. You stepped inside and he was close behind. The door shut with a click.

All modesty was lost. The camera wasn’t hard to notice in the corner of your cage. He’d seen everything already. You undressed in the small bathroom as he bent over the tub and cranked the faucet. He tested the water with his hand and put the plug in place. He pushed himself away and stood against the wall. You didn’t look at him as you stepped into the basin.

You lowered yourself into the warm water and a sigh slipped from your lips. There was little that soothed you these days. The heat embraced you as the water rose around you. As the tub filled up, the man neared again and turned it off. 

He pulled up the short stool from beneath the sink and sat on it. He took the loufa from the ledge and wetted it before he added soap. You lowered your head and stretched out your arm for him to scrub. You hated this part. He was gentle but firm; the soap was vanilla scented. You hated that too.

When he finished your arms, you stood and he did too. You bent your leg and placed your foot on the edge of the tub. He scrubbed both legs, his hands lingering around you thighs. You tried not to shiver as he tickled you unintentionally. 

Then he washed your neck, chest, and stomach. He got lower and his hand paused just along your vee. He sharply pulled his hand away and motioned for you to turn. You did and he scrubbed your back. When he was finished, you lowered yourself back into the water. You splashed the water up your shoulders and rinsed away the suds.

He took the plastic cup that sat on the lip of the tub and dipped it under the surface. He poured it over your head as you leaned back. It was hair day. He soaked your locks entirely and added the herbal shampoo. He rinsed it and brushed his nails along your scalp. When he was done you wiped your face clean with your hands.

He retreated and you stayed as you were. He’d let you relax until the water was lukewarm. Then you’d eat. He held up the towel when you unplugged the tub and you let him wrap it around you. You stood on the mat and dried you until you were no longer sopping. He handed you the robe hung on the back of the door.

He opened the door and let you lead again. You sat at the table as he went to the kitchenette. He returned with a bowl of Cheerios. He sat close and turned your chair to face him. He took the spoon and scooped up a mouthful. You gritted your teeth before you forced your mouth open. He fed you a bite at a time, careful to wipe away any dribble with his thumb.

When you finished, he got up and took your bowl to the sink and rinsed it. You waited for him to return. He sat and you shook your head as you glared at the wall behind him. He shifted in his chair and clutched his knees.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

You shrugged and pushed yourself to your feet. “Should go back, shouldn’t I?”

“No,” He touched your wrist. “Sit. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You sighed and sat heavily. The chair scraped on the floor. You blinked at him, unsure what to say. The words to express all the resent and anger that boiled inside of you wouldn’t come.

“Tell me.” He repeated.

You chewed your lip as your thought and then your cheeks burned, and the back of your neck. The bile seared the back of your throat.

“Why--” You paused and cleared your throat. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I never wanted to be here.”

It was his turn to shake his head. He sat back. “No, no, no,” He raised his hands defensively. “No. I brought you here because it’s what’s best for you. For us. You… have to want this, you understand? Because it’s what you need.”

“I don’t,” You insisted and crossed your arms.

“You… need more time,” He argued as he leaned forward. “You don’t belong out there alone. You belong in here, with me. I’m the only one who can--”

He stopped suddenly and stood. He held a finger up and inhaled deeply, as if restraining himself.

“Come on,” He grabbed your arm and pulled you to your feet. “You should get dressed. Catch up on your reading.”

“I don’t want to read!” You tried to tear your arm away from him. He was strong despite his lithe stature. “I’ve been reading for-for-for-- God knows how long! You can’t keep me here.”

“I have to,” He snarled as he opened the door. “I have to.” He shoved you inside. “And one day,” He said as he gripped the door. “You’ll thank me.”

He closed the door and you watched the handle jiggle as he locked it. You dropped your arms and hung your head. You felt the tears and sniffed them back. You hadn’t cried since the first night. You slowly crossed to the bed and sat. You bent and reached for your copy of Beowulf. 

The cover fell open and revealed the title page. Scribbled in the corner were two initials; _P.P._ You stared at them for a time. The book was worn and on its back cover, it still bore the library slip which marked it as stolen property from Midtown High School. You found your spot and laid back on the thin mattress.

_‘like ice when the world's/ Eternal Lord loosens invisible/ Fetters and unwinds icicles and frost/ As only He can, He who rules/ Time and seasons, He who is truly/ God.’_

Your eyes swept over the prose without understanding. Your mind was in the dining room, across the table from him. Morning after morning staring at a featureless face. Molested by this monster. Trapped in this dungeon he called home. But it was not yours. And you were not his.

You closed the book and rolled over. You’d rather the nightmare.


End file.
